The house was not grand, not small either, but beautiful in its stillness. Its white stone walls were laced with ivy, their green threads still clinging bravely to life despite the cold. It looked newly restored, the woodwork fresh, the windows polished until they caught the fading sun. Beside it stretched a modest garden, dusted in frost like powdered glass. Beyond that, a little coop of chickens huddled together for warmth, a lone cow flicked its tail lazily, and a few apple trees bowed with the weight of early snow. There was even a patch of open land to the side; a small field, waiting to be tilled, patient as hope itself.
Lorraine's throat tightened. After all the blood and fire, the endless flight and fear, this looked like something from a dream, a place untouched by hatred.
Behind her, Leroy's voice broke the silence, soft and almost uncertain.
